


what's in a name

by Frogster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, True Love, caring!Hermione, humbled!draco, introspective, past sins, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frogster/pseuds/Frogster
Summary: He loved her deeply, his brilliant Muggleborn lioness. But he couldn't bear to be sneered at in front of her, especially on this night of all nights.Draco has an important question to ask Hermione, but prejudice and insecurities intervene. Can Hermione convince him that actions, not names, are what truly define a person? DH compliant, EWE. Established Dramione.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! This is my first published Dramione. I may have only joined the fandom about a year and a half ago, but they quickly became my OTP. I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Thanks as always to my dear friend, sirenofodysseus/iloveplotbunnies/Amber, for beta reading. This one's for you. Thanks also to my new beta and friend ElleMalfoy65 for reading as well! (If you haven't checked out her story Soul Bound, do so! It's fantastic and I'm honored to get to beta it.)
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Dramione would have been canon.

He’d left.

 

He was a coward and he’d left.

 

Not her—he’d never leave _her_ —but leaving a situation where it felt like every single one of his past sins was thrown up into his face _again_ , never mind the fact that he was reminded every day at the sight of his left forearm—now that, he would do. It just wasn’t worth fighting for.

 

But she— _she_ was worth fighting for.

 

He would never admit it out loud—well, maybe to her, but only _her_ —but he needed her. He needed her intelligence, her fire, her loyalty, her unshakeable trust in him. He needed her quirks and her mountains of books and her still wild hair. He needed her because she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he was bound and determined to keep her, if she’d have him, for the rest of their days.

 

He loved her deeply, his brilliant Muggleborn lioness.

 

But he couldn’t bear to be sneered at in front of her, especially on this night of all nights, and so he’d turned around and left.

 

He hoped she’d follow.

 

* * *

 

  
Draco Malfoy had been dating Hermione Granger for exactly one year on the night in question, although they had been friends for a couple of years before that. He had turned to fight for the Light in the middle of the Final Battle, but his last-minute change of heart was not enough to prevent him from going to trial a few weeks after Voldemort had been defeated. Harry and Hermione had both testified in his defense, resulting in credit for time spent in Azkaban awaiting trial, a mandate directing him to return to Hogwarts to complete his final year, and five years of probation after that to be spent working for the Ministry.

 

When his trial was complete, he had hugged his mother, who had been sentenced to two years of house arrest in the Manor followed by five years of probation. She had already set about making amends with her sister Andromeda, and Draco knew that she would be fine. He had then turned to Potter and Granger and had civilly thanked them for testifying. He was just glad that the Weasel hadn’t shown up—apologizing to him would have been more than Draco could have handled at the time.

  
“Thank you for your testimony, Potter. I…apologize for being such a git all those years, and thanks for getting rid of Old Snakeface,” Draco had said, sighing—it had taken a lot out of him to apologize to his old enemy.

  
“You’re welcome, and apology accepted. Truce?” asked Potter, sticking out his hand.

Draco eyeballed the Gryffindor’s hand for a while, only taking it when it looked like Potter was going to retract it. “Truce,” he said gruffly, but civilly, “but this doesn’t mean we’re going to be the best of friends. It just means that I won’t try to hex you anymore.”

  
Potter laughed. “Fair enough. Hermione, I’m going to wait outside, come find me when you’re done, yeah?”

  
Draco hadn’t realized that his desire to apologize to Granger alone was so apparent. He felt like the animosity between them had been more personal in a way, since he had once bought into the Pureblood hatred of Muggles and Muggleborns and had remained on that side even after Granger’s brilliance had forced him to reluctantly but wholly dismiss the stereotypes of Muggleborns, at least, as blatantly false. While Potter’s battle had mainly been with the Dark…with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Granger had fought against an ideology that saw her as a second-class being, and he had been the one to introduce her to such bigotry.

Granger smiled at Potter, if a little apprehensively, and turned to Draco.

  
“Thank you for testifying too, Granger. You of all people…you of all people should have the most reason to want me to rot in Azkaban. I…apologize to you as well for my actions and words over the years. They were unfounded…except for the comments about your hair,” he said, smirking. Granger rolled her eyes. “And the ones about you being a know-it-all. Although you’re not as insufferable as I once thought.”

  
Granger just nodded, rolling her eyes again. “I suppose that’s as good an apology as I’m likely to get. You’re welcome, Malfoy. You might have been an awful, ignorant prat in school, but you weren’t evil. You didn’t kill Dumbledore and you didn’t give us up at…on that day. I saw you, and it looked like you wanted to be there even less than we did.”

  
Draco just nodded, not knowing what to say to that. Granger made to leave, but he had one last thing to say. “You’re going back to Hogwarts for the final year, correct?”

  
“Yes,” she had answered.

  
“Thought so,” he said, smirking. “Can’t keep a bookworm like you from studying. I suppose I will…see you then, Granger.”

 

* * *

 

  
Upon returning to Hogwarts, he saw a lot of Granger. Most of their year had returned, except for Potter and the Weasel, who had jumped at the chance to become Aurors right away. Draco had snorted upon learning this—of course The Boy Who Lived Twice and his ginger sidekick had been able to secure jobs without even sitting their N.E.W.T.s while the Slytherins who had survived had been made to return to Hogwarts to complete their final year, complete with a mandatory Muggle Studies class.

  
Draco shared most of his other classes with Granger—they both had elected to take the majority of classes that Hogwarts offered. While Headmistress McGonagall had elected to give the head positions to seventh years—that Lovegood girl from Ravenclaw and some bloke named Scamander from Hufflepuff—she had also designated two student heads of houses to assist her and the deputy headmaster, Snape, who had barely survived his injuries thanks to a swift application of some phoenix tears that the former Potions professor had just happened to have with him.

Of course, since the other two houses were already represented, and since McGonagall and Snape were temporarily holding on to their titles as Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin House, respectively, until suitable replacements could be found, Granger and Draco had been named to these roles. They were both the leading students from their respective houses, and Draco could tell that the professors expected and hoped that he would quash any possible rebellion or discontent in Slytherin house. For his part, Draco wanted nothing to do with any sort of attempt to create a sort of Junior Death Eaters group—he’d had more than enough of war and hatred to last him a lifetime and just wanted to get on with his life as best as he could. He thus made it clear on the first night that any attempts to incite violence or a house-led war would be immediately reported and stifled.

  
Since he and Granger now had to collaborate both as student heads and sometimes in class, they began to strike up a friendship. They still squabbled and argued and debated, but now it was more likely to be over the best uses for a certain potions ingredient, the best literature—Muggle and Wizarding alike—the best answer to an Arithmancy or Ancient Runes problem, or a remark on the current political climate, laws regarding house elves and other magical creatures included.

  
He had respected and admired her mind for many years—probably even before he even admitted to himself that she was simply brilliant, blood status notwithstanding—but their eighth year showed him just how brilliant she really was. She was widely read and remembered most everything she had read—except for _Quidditch Through the Ages_ , which she had really just read to see what all the fuss was about. She knew so much about so many topics, both Muggle and Wizarding, and could take her wide-ranging knowledge and apply it to many different areas in different ways. As she became more comfortable with him, she frequently told him how refreshing it was to have someone who was on her intellectual level to debate with—her boys, as she called them, were very dear to her, but they were woefully uninterested in many of the things she was passionate about.

  
Their friendship continued to deepen as the fall term progressed, and Draco increasingly found himself paying more attention to the fire in her eyes as she passionately argued her point than what she was actually saying. He slowly realized that he was attracted to her—had been for years, probably, considering how struck he was by her at the Yule Ball. She continued to be oblivious, and he wasn’t about to enlighten her about his newfound feelings. Her relationship with the Weasel might have fizzled out as soon as it had started, but she was still Gryffindor’s Golden Girl and he was still Slytherin’s Prince.

 

Plus, he couldn’t help but think, in the most insecure parts of him, that she might one day decide that maintaining a friendship with him wasn’t worth the opposition they were bound to face.

 

They hadn’t been friends long, but he could already tell that he wouldn’t be able to bear that.

 

* * *

 

  
He remembered when he first realized he was in love with her.

 

It was early in December, and Granger was already fretting about term papers and exams. She was airing her concerns to Draco and he was inwardly chuckling at her swottiness as they patrolled the hallways near the kitchens.

 

Suddenly, a figure jumped out from one of the side corridors. Upon seeing Draco, the unknown person ran headlong at him and hurtled them both into the wall.

 

“Vile Death Eater scum! You shouldn’t be allowed to be here! You should be in Azkaban where you belong! You killed my brother!” the assailant, who looked to be a young man in his early teens, said, thrusting his wand under Draco’s chin.

 

Draco’s eyes widened. He actually hadn’t killed anyone during the war. So why would anyone think….

 

He suddenly realized who this boy was. He didn’t remember the name, but his assailant was the younger brother of that Gryffindor kid who had always followed Potter around, taking pictures every chance he got. 

  
Draco sucked in a deep breath as the boy’s wand wavered. The boy’s non-wand hand was gripping the front of Draco’s robes and the two young men were moving slightly back and forth.  
  
Draco realized then that Granger was trying to pull the Gryffindor kid—Creepy? Creeby? Something that started with a C—off of him, but even Granger’s wiry strength was no match for the sheer adrenaline of the broken boy in front of him.

 

The kid—Creevey, Draco remembered now—was sobbing as he continued to yell at Draco. “Why are you still alive when my brother is dead? Why do you get to live when he doesn’t?”

 

Draco couldn’t answer that question. He had wondered himself why he had lived when many others had died.

 

He may not have killed the Creevey kid’s older brother, but the death of the budding photographer still weighed on Draco.

 

“I didn’t kill your brother,” said Draco finally. “I didn’t kill your brother. I saw him, though. I…his death made me realize that I could be the next to die. Right after that was when I turned and started helping the Light side however I could while still keeping myself relatively safe.”

 

Draco felt two pairs of eyes on him. He couldn’t focus on them, though; he was remembering that day seven months before.

 

He had been trying to find his parents and just simply stay alive. He had been running down a hallway when he had come to a section of the wall that had been reduced to rubble. As he ran past, he caught a glimpse of blond hair sticking out from the rubble. He was already so rattled by what he had seen of the battle raging around him that he was unsure if he was hallucinating or having an out-of-body experience; the shock of blond hair, while not quite as pale as his own, was light enough to make him stop. He had gone over to take a closer look and recalled the obnoxious Gryffindor who had idolized Potter. No matter that the kid was a Gryffindor and a Muggleborn, too, if his memory served correct—no one deserved what must have been a painful death.

 

He didn’t want to end up like that. He had already grown disillusioned with the Dark…He Who Must Not Be Named’s agenda, especially after that horrible day at the Manor when Granger…no, he wouldn’t think about that, or he would retch. He simply knew that Old Snakeface was wrong and that he wouldn’t stop with just terrorizing Muggleborns and Muggles…no, halfbloods and purebloods would be next. The megalomaniac craved power. Draco understood the allure of power—he was a Slytherin after all—but what good was power when everything was in shambles around you?

 

He remembered making to leave and resolving to help the Light in some small way when he had caught sight of something that somehow was even more agonizing than thinking you’re looking at your own dead body—strands of curly brown hair also sticking out of the rubble.

 

They weren’t Granger’s—somehow he could tell that the strands belonging to the poor lifeless girl were too light to be those belonging to Gryffindor’s Princess—but the sight seemed to stop his heart all the same. He’d felt a renewed determination to help Potter bring Old Snakeface down, although he hadn’t quite known why. He still didn’t, although he felt the answer was just out of reach.

 

“A likely story.” The voice of the Creevey boy brought Draco out of his reverie. The younger blond then let go of Draco’s robe and made as if to punch him—what fascination those Gryffindors had with punching his aristocratic face, he would never know.

 

He was saved from another broken nose by the woman who had broken it the first time. Granger had grabbed her housemate’s arm as he swung back and used his surprise and momentum to swing him around to her.

 

“Dennis, what in the name of Godric’s sword are you doing?”

 

“Oh, Hermione,” said the younger Gryffindor. “Good, you’re here. You can help me take this Death Eater down!”

 

Granger frowned. “No. He’s done nothing wrong—not this year, anyway.”

 

“Nothing wrong? He and his kind killed my brother!”

 

“And I am so sorry your brother was killed, Dennis. Colin was a good young man and his bravery won’t be forgotten. But don’t take it out on Draco.”

 

“He’s corrupted you somehow,” said the broken Gryffindor. “What kind of hex did he put on you? Did he put you under the Imperius curse?”

 

“No!” Granger avowed. “Draco has changed. He’s a better man, now, truly. Do you think I would be friends with him if I didn’t think he had changed? Sure, he can still be kind of a git, but people don’t completely change overnight. But he knows that he did wrong, and that his beliefs were unfounded, and he’s very sorry for the part he played in the war.”

 

“Sorry won’t bring my brother back!”

“I know,” said Granger. “I know. But being remorseful is a start. Hopefully enough people have seen the error of their ways and we won’t ever have another Wizarding war. Now, tell me, Dennis, what’s brought this on? You’re not the kind of kid to go attacking someone for no reason, and it’s nowhere near the anniversary…”

 

The younger Gryffindor broke down as Granger and Draco watched. “Today would have been my brother’s birthday,” sobbed the young man. “I just miss him so much…”

 

Granger, in her boundless kindness, wrapped her arms around the poor boy. Draco was struck by how she’d defended him earlier. To hear the acceptance and forgiveness coming from her lovely mouth—it was more than he could bear.

 

He had known for years that she had a soft spot for those in need or for those who were disadvantaged, undervalued, or otherwise unable to defend themselves. Her quest to free all the house elves was proof enough of her commitment to standing up for others when she thought they were being mistreated. But to know that Hermione Granger’s sphere of protection extended to someone like him--someone who didn’t deserve it--rocked Draco to his core.

 

Somehow, she had deemed him worthy of a second chance, worthy of her friendship, worthy of her advocacy. Before the war, Draco would have considered it beneath him to be categorized with house elves in any way, but now he welcomed the association if it meant he would be deemed worthy of Granger’s fiery, impassioned defensive speeches. He loved her intelligence, her fire, her passion.

 

And then he knew.

 

He was irrevocably, irredeemably, irrefutably in love with Hermione Granger.

 

* * *

  
  


Despite his revelation, Draco decided to keep his newfound feelings to himself. His friendship with Granger grew stronger and continued even after they had left Hogwarts. Draco had worked for a few months after graduation for the Portkey office—an innocuous job, and one he knew had been allotted to him so that he could be monitored and his character judged. Granger had received offers from various departments as well as from Hogwarts and even St. Mungo’s, but she had ultimately chosen to follow her passion for advocating for the rights of magical creatures. It had come as a surprise to her—though not to Draco—that she was able to get laws passed that aided both werewolves and house elves in only fifteen months. She had left her position in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for one in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, ready to tackle the laws that overwhelmingly favored purebloods as well as provide research assistance to the Aurors who were still trying to track down the remaining Death Eaters.

 

Draco himself had switched to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement about six months before Granger had started working there. He had been very surprised when Potter had asked him for his assistance in tracking down the few Death Eaters who were still at large, and while he had readily acquiesced, he suspected that Granger had been behind the request—or at the very least had talked him up to Potter. Whatever the reason, however, he was glad to be out of the monotony of the Portkey office and wanted to help bring the rest of the Death Eaters to justice. He felt he owed it to Potter, and to Granger, too. While Slytherins didn’t like having to owe anyone anything, they never forgot who they were indebted to—or who was indebted to them.

 

Surprisingly, he had become fairly good friends with Potter, who wasn’t that bad, once you got past his irrational need to save people without any thought to himself. Draco respected Potter, though, and he knew that the young man meant a great deal to Granger, so getting along with him than easier than Draco had thought. It wasn’t long before Draco began to be invited to dinners at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow.

 

It also wasn’t long before Potter or his wife—once a Weaselette, now Potterette or Red—figured out Draco’s feelings for their bushy-haired mutual friend and began subtly (and not-so-subtly) giving him hints that he should ask the love of his life out. Finally Draco had mustered up the courage and had asked out Granger—Hermione, as she’d asked him to call her after agreeing to go to dinner with him.

 

He hadn’t thought that it was possible for him to fall deeper in love with her, but he did. He enjoyed discussing—and debating—wizarding and Muggle literature with her, discussing magical theories with her—especially those involving potions or charms—and even exploring certain elements of the Muggle world like the cinema and museums. He longed to take her to Wizarding Paris—although she had been to the Muggle side, she had never been able to experience the wonder that the Wizarding side of the French capital had to offer. He loved spending time with her, whether it was on the couch at her flat or his or at a shop or restaurant in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade.

 

To his surprise and delight, she fell in love with him too. Apparently she had been harboring feelings for him for a while. Potter and his wife had tried to encourage her to ask Draco out herself, and she had almost decided to when he asked her first.

 

A year had passed since they had started dating, and Draco had decided to ask Hermione to marry him. He planned to take her to a fancy restaurant in Diagon Alley—although she wasn’t much for ridiculously expensive meals, she deserved the best. He planned to ask her the most important question he would ever ask, and he hoped with all his once-cold heart that she would say yes.

 

However, his plans were derailed when they arrived at the restaurant. The maître d’ had taken one look at Draco and had immediately informed the couple that the young Malfoy was not welcome in the establishment, but that they would be happy to serve Miss Granger.

 

Draco’s heart sank. He had tried so hard to distance himself from the Malfoy family’s past actions and beliefs, and yet here was someone who took one look at him, saw the unmistakable features, and immediately denied him service.

 

Draco had been raised to believe that the Malfoys were better than all other families. While he had cast that notion aside, he still had a great deal of pride. While he had admired, even loved, Hermione’s defense of him during their eighth year, that didn’t mean that he wanted to be torn down in front of her.

 

His hand moved toward his wand, but stopped. He didn’t want to be thrown in Azkaban, as he probably would be, even for a charge of petty assault. He knew very well that there were still those who hated him and his family, although they seemed to be fewer and fewer as the years went by. They tolerated him for Hermione’s sake, he knew, but one foot out of line and he knew that a not insignificant number of people would be clamoring for him to enjoy a nice long stay in Azkaban.

 

He heard his brilliant witch start passionately defending him, but he couldn’t process the words. If some people were still like this now, even after Hermione had made it very clear that she would not tolerate any public—or private, if she caught wind of it—desecration of Draco or their relationship, and even after Potter and his wife had come out publically in support of their relationship, then what would it be like if Hermione became his wife?

 

He was well aware that his fiery witch could hold her own, but he was still afraid that someday she might realize that she could do better than him. He knew that he couldn’t do better than her, and most days he thought that he was the best fit for her, but the part of him who was still that eleven-year-old boy who wanted true friends but was unfortunately a prat reared his head from time to time.

 

He tried to get her attention, to tell her they would just leave and that he would send a scathing review of the place to the _Daily Prophet_ in the morning, but she was still ranting. He caught phrases like “discrimination” and “this is not why I fought in the war.”

 

So he simply squeezed her hand, dropped it, and walked off, moving slowly so she would have time to catch up.

 

He hoped she’d follow.

                          

* * *

 

She followed.

 

“Draco!”

 

He was leaning up against a building about two blocks away from the restaurant. He watched her run toward him, hair flying out of its updo and settling around her shoulders.

 

“Draco, love, I’m sorry. I tried to get that man to see reason, but he wouldn’t. I finally had to tell him that as we were a package deal, I would not be dining there until their policies changed and would be sure to tell all my friends about his egregious abuse of authority.”

 

He smirked at her Slytherin streak, but answered, “Why are you sorry, love? I should be sorry. I wanted to take you out for our anniversary, and because of my past, I ruined what should have been a wonderful night.”

 

She laughed. “Oh, Draco. It’s not ruined. You know me—while I dearly appreciate your planning this date, I don’t need fancy dinners. Although I must admit that I was looking forward to trying their specialty,” she added. “I’m much happier having a small dinner at one of our favorite spots or, even better, eating takeaway on my couch with you. I’m with you for _you_ , not because you can shower me with expensive gifts or treat me to fancy dinners.”

 

He shook his head. She was just too good to be true. “Well, if you don’t like my expensive gifts, I guess I’ll be taking back that first edition of _Hogwarts: A History_ I gave you for your birthday last year.”

 

She laughed again. “No, I’m definitely keeping that one. It might have been expensive, but it was thoughtful.”

 

There was a pause, and then she spoke again. “C’mon, Draco, we can still go grab some takeaway.”

 

He simply nodded and walked by her side as she led them to the Leaky Cauldron and back into Muggle London. “I hope this is okay with you,” she said as she headed toward one of their favorite restaurants, a small Italian place just around the corner from the Muggle entrance to the Leaky. He nodded again. “I thought we could do with some comfort food.”

 

Tesoro’s would most likely be categorized as a hole-in-the-wall, but it was a favorite with Draco and Hermione both for the good food and the degree of anonymity that eating in a restaurant in the Muggle world provided. Additionally, the restaurant was owned and ran by a British Squib and her Italian Squib husband.

 

While a few witches and wizards frequented the establishment, it was mainly populated by Muggles. Draco had initially had a few reservations about being around Muggles when Hermione had first suggested the place, but the cozy atmosphere, good food, and excellent company in Hermione had soon won him over.

 

As they entered, the owner, Katherine, greeted them. “Draco and Hermione!” She said. As a Squib, she knew who they were; Draco had seen the edge of a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ peeking out from a drawer a few times. She had never mentioned his involvement in the war, which he was grateful for. “The usual?” Katherine asked.

 

Hermione looked at Draco, who inclined his head in a silent answer. “The usual order, Kate,” said Hermione, “but not the usual table. I think we’ll take this one to go. A night in sounds really good.”

 

“I’ll have it out for you soon,” said Katherine, moving to the kitchen to help her husband prepare the food.

 

Draco and Hermione sat at a small table to wait. Draco remained silent, still lost in his thoughts. Hermione brought him out of his reverie. “Draco, darling,” she murmured. “Look at me.” Not willing to deny her anything, he met her intense chocolate gaze. “Oh, Draco. Please don’t beat yourself up. I told you, I would rather spend a night in with you than go to the fanciest, most exclusive restaurant. Please, talk to me.”

 

Draco sighed and nodded. “Not here,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, they reached Hermione’s flat, still within the Muggle world but heavily warded. Draco sat down on Hermione’s couch while she prepared the containers. Draco put his head in his hands while he waited, still feeling horrible for ruining their night. He felt something soft and fluffy nudge his hand; it was Crookshanks, who surprisingly had taken a shine to him. Draco absently ran his hand over the ginger cat’s fur until Hermione brought their food along with drinks. They began eating, but Draco couldn’t think of anything to say.

 

Suddenly, Hermione put her fork down. “Draco, love. Please. Talk to me. What’s going on? You’re usually not like this.”

 

He looked at his beloved witch. “I don’t deserve you,” he began.

 

“Draco…”

 

“Don’t. Just listen, love. I don’t deserve you. This was supposed to be a special night. I know you said you don’t care about being showered with fancy dinners and gifts, but I still want to celebrate you, at least every once in a while.

 

“Usually I don’t care about what other people say about our relationship—or at least I don’t care that much. And since you threatened anyone who spoke out against me or our relationship, not many people have said anything. But sometimes I can’t help but think that you could do better than me. I don’t like feeling insecure, but I do. And then that man tonight…I was already feeling nervous, because it was our anniversary dinner and I was planning on asking you a very important question tonight—”

 

Hermione gasped, the implication of his words not lost on her. “Don’t worry, love, that’s not the actual question. I just wanted everything to be perfect. And then that prick had to open up his mouth. And he ruined everything.”

 

Hermione, Merlin love her, grasped Draco’s hands, tracing soothing circles with her thumb. “You are, without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. I don’t want to lose you. I’m still too selfish to let you go. But I can’t say that I would blame you if you ever decided to leave. I would never want you to; I would fight to win you back. But you deserve someone untainted.”

 

“Draco, love. We were all tainted by the war. There’s not a one of us from our generation who wasn’t affected in some way. And you’re not going to lose me. You say that I deserve someone untainted. Well, I say that I deserve someone who loves me dearly, who challenges me, who inspires me, who respects me, who knows me inside and out and still loves me. You are all that and more.”

 

Draco was humbled by her passionate, loving words. He didn’t deserve such a witch. He pressed on carefully; he wanted to make known what he wanted without actually saying the words. “I am not under the impression that you would automatically take the name of Malfoy should the occasion arise. But if I get what I want—what I hope we both want—you would be tied to the name of Malfoy for the rest of our lives. And I would not want to taint you with such a name. Bad faith is what it means, Hermione, as I’m sure you know. It’s bad to have faith in a Malfoy. Even without the Death Eater association, the Malfoys have been involved in dark magic for generations. Not to mention my mother’s side of the family.

 

“I know you could handle anything thrown at us. I just couldn’t bear it if you suddenly decided that being with me wasn’t worth it after we had already bonded. Sometimes I wonder if the past is too great a chasm to overcome. You’re the Gryffindors’ Golden Girl. You can do no wrong in their eyes. You have so much going for you; would you really want to be saddled with the likes of me?”

 

Hermione had sat quietly, listening to Draco pour his heart out and continuing to caress his hands. When he had finished, she sat up straight and gripped his hands tightly. “Now listen here, Draco Malfoy. Your family may have had a dark past, but you do not have to follow in their footsteps. You don’t have to be like them. You are _not_ like them. You are better. You realized the error of your ways and turned. You may still be a git much of the time, but you are _my_ git and I love you.

 

“When we first got together, you asked me how I could stand to be with you when you bore the Dark Mark. Do you remember what I told you?”

 

Draco nodded. “You said that you had been marked too, that we would probably always bear the scars, but that they were daily reminders of what we had been through, what we survived.”

 

“Exactly,” said Hermione. “And I know that the Dark Mark is a bit different from my scar,” she said, pointing to her left arm, “because you allowed it to happen, even though you were under duress and thought that you had to take the mark to save your family, and that mine was forcibly imposed on me. However, they both mark us as something we were once labeled as and are now trying to overcome.”

 

“Overcoming the stigma of being an ex-Death Eater is somewhat easier than overcoming centuries of malevolent, malfeasant Malfoys.”

 

“But you’re working towards that point. And your Dark Mark has significantly faded. Besides, Draco, you’re using your family’s money to do some good. You backed my house-elf law that sought protection for abused elves and assured that they would be well taken care of in old age and even put up money towards a building to house elderly elves.”

 

“I felt I owed Dobby to some extent. He saved your life. He got you and Potter and Weasley out of the Manor and what did he get for it? He was killed. He was a strange little creature but he didn’t deserve that. And I don’t like being in debt to anyone.”

 

“What about your contributions to the Magical Orphans Fund? I know that you and your parents were required to donate a significant amount to the fund as reparation, and that since your father was effectively stripped of his magic and confined to the Manor for a few years, you’ve been in charge of the family finances. But that doesn’t explain how you yourself donated money meant specifically for Teddy Lupin.”

 

Draco sighed. “Potter told you that, didn’t he? I knew I shouldn’t have let him in on it, but apparently I needed someone from the Ministry to vouch for me.”

 

“He actually didn’t,” said Hermione. “I figured it out myself.”

 

Draco huffed. “Well, you are the brightest witch of your age. And the kid is family. Salazar knows I don’t have much of that. If this war taught me anything besides relieving me of my past prejudices, it’s that family is supposed to stick together.”

 

“Face it, Draco Malfoy. You are a good man,” said Hermione, grinning.

 

“If I am, it’s because of you,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “I could find a cure for Dragon pox and still not be half as good as you are.”

 

Hermione sighed. “Draco, I don’t know why you insist on making me into some kind of saint. I love that you think the world of me, really I do, but I don’t want you to become disillusioned. I’m not perfect. I have my faults.”

 

Draco snorted. “Of course I know you have your faults, Granger,” he drawled, slipping back into his public persona. “Your hair, while slightly less wild, still looks like a bramble bush. You have the annoying habit of wearing your Weasley sweater collection _in public_ all winter long. Really, Granger, I know you feel like you owe it to the Weasleys since they’re your wizarding family, but it’s _just not dignified._ ”

 

Hermione chuckled. He knew that she knew that he was grateful for his own Weasley sweaters and what they represented—forgiveness and acceptance—but that he still didn’t think they were dignified enough to wear except for visits to the Burrow in the winter and the occasional very cold day while cooped up inside either his flat or the Manor.

 

He continued rattling off his list of her faults that sounded more like idiosyncrasies. “You also have the infuriating habit of being bright-eyed and bushy-haired much too early in the morning. When normal people are downing their first cup of coffee in order to become halfway civilized, you’ve already saved the centaurs and are working on smoothing over the rookie Aurors’ latest mishap. Plus, you tend to have rigid preconceived notions about people—although you’re not as bad as Potter, and unlike Potter, you are willing to give people a chance once we’ve worn you down. Yes, we. You know I wore you down with my charm. I did get an Outstanding in Charms, after all.”

 

Hermione grinned at him, not perturbed in the least. “There’s the snarky Draco I know and love.”

 

She then grew serious. “You say that you don’t like what the name Malfoy has come to mean. Well, what about my name?”

 

“Your name?” Draco asked.

 

“Yes, my name. Granger. Don’t you know where the name Granger comes from?”

 

“No, I can’t say that I do, but I’m guessing you do, O Brilliant One.”

 

“The surname Granger comes from the occupation of the same name—a farm worker, more specifically a steward of sorts, who collected rent for the lord of the manor. This rent was paid in the form of grain, usually, and stored in a granary. The name comes from Anglo-Norman, that mix of French and English that became the language of England after William the Conqueror conquered England in 1066. My family is originally Norman French, too, Draco, just like yours.”

 

“That makes sense, actually,” Draco said, marveling at how his witch’s tendency to sound like a textbook no longer irritated him, but rather drove him wild.

 

“What makes sense?”

 

“That your ancestors were among a group of people who were in charge of making sure that the lowly peasants did what they were supposed to, as in paying the lord of the manor rent. Perfect practice for you, their descendant, for keeping Potter and Weasley in line.”

 

Hermione huffed. “That’s not the point, Draco. The point is that my ancestors were farm workers—not common laborers, no, but their occupation, what they did, gave them their very name. But at some point, one of those Grangers had to decide that they wanted more than to work on a farm, even if they did have some power. They kept their name and set themselves on a new path. You can do the same thing. You already are.”

 

It was quiet for a few minutes while Draco mulled over Hermione’s words. She then broke the silence while placing her hands on his cheeks. He leaned into her touch while she spoke softly. “Draco, I love you. I love you so much. Make the others see that it would be bad for anyone not to have faith in a Malfoy. Make them see what I see—or at least some of what I see.”

 

He had closed his eyes as soon as she had touched him, and now he opened them to look into her loving gaze. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “So much.”

 

Hermione smiled. “So, what was that question you were going to ask me?”

 

“You still want to be asked? Even after everything?”

 

“Of course, Draco. If you’re planning on asking me what I think you are.”

 

He breathed in deeply, then rose from the couch and got down on one knee, taking her hands in his. “Hermione Jean Granger, I love you. I love you more than you’ll ever know. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You mean the world to me and I can’t imagine life without you by my side. I want to love you, challenge you, and yes, annoy you for the rest of our days. I’m yours, always, if you’ll have me. Hermione, love, will you marry me?”

 

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a white gold ring with a princess cut alexandrite in the center.

 

“Yes. A thousand times, yes, Draco!” Hermione exclaimed, sliding off the couch and throwing her arms around him. He pulled back so he could kiss her deeply.

 

His beloved witch. His fiancée.

 

“I know it’s not a diamond, but I think it fits,” Draco said when they were finally able to pry themselves apart, sliding the ring on her finger.

 

Hermione looked at the swirling shades of red and green encapsulated in the gem. “Red and green. Gryffindor and Slytherin. It’s us,” she said.

 

“It is. At times the gem will look more green than red, and vice versa. Much of the time, though, the gem will feature both colors circling around each other.”

 

“It’s beautiful, Draco. I love you,” Hermione said, drawing his lips to hers again.

 

They lost themselves in each other for a little while, and then Hermione pulled back to look at her ring again.

 

“Don’t you want to know its history?”

 

At the mention of new knowledge, Hermione brightened. “Oh yes, please!”

 

Draco chuckled. “Well, while my family has been pureblooded for more generations than have probably even been recorded, a Gryffindor did marry into the Malfoy line once before. One of my ancestors, Octavius Malfoy, back in the 1700s, married a Gryffindor witch, and by all accounts they were very happy. This was sometime before the Dark Arts became normal for the Malfoys—while most of them did dabble somewhat, there were others who did not, and Octavius seems to have been one of those few. I found this in the Malfoy vault at Gringotts and have been holding onto it in hopes that my own Gryffindor witch would agree to marry me.”

 

“And she did. Wholeheartedly.”

 

They kissed again, not able to keep themselves from each other. When the need for air became evident, they reluctantly pulled back, Draco pressing a chaste kisses to Hermione’s lips, cheeks, and forehead before looking at her. She had a beatific smile on her face, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful, with her lips red and swollen from his kisses, her hair and clothes mussed from his hands, and his ring on her finger.

 

She opened her eyes. “You said that you wouldn’t expect me to change my name to Malfoy if I agreed to marry you. Well, I had already decided a few months ago that if you ever asked, I would hyphenate my name for professional purposes. Hermione Granger-Malfoy has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

 

He wholeheartedly agreed.

 

“But even if my legal and professional name is hyphenated, well, I can’t say that I wouldn’t like it if you did call me Mrs. Malfoy in private,” she said, winking and blushing at the same time.

 

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he drawled, trying out the name. His surname, so fraught with problems and past sins, sounded so much better when his witch was associated with it.

 

“Sounds wonderful, darling,” he purred. “I may just grow to like my name after all.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think! Hit that little review button or Draco will let his father know about it. ;)


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